


Let There Be Light ( And It Was Good)

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Blind Character, Blind Stiles, F/M, M/M, Temporary Blindness, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5920978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is born into a world where the Unmated remain blind and fragile until found by their (usually) Werewolf Mate. He strongly believes that tbiz entire thing is a huge pile BS. In fact, he's spent most of his 17 years on this earth trying to fix a system that's done nothing but segregate and  enslave humans, regardless of their Alpha/Beta/Omega status. Obviously, things a little different once he finds a real mate. </p><p>Not everything is what you read in the news, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. See No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously didn't edit this. Just saying. I just can't look at it anymore. So, my apologies for that. We'll see where this goes.
> 
> Edit: I made a mistake with the names! Erica in the end is supposed to be Laura. My bad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on Dynamics: 
> 
> • Only the humans are born blind. No one is completely sure if this has always been the case, since a large sum of ancient records were lost and werewolves have re-writing history in their favor for thousands of years. 
> 
> • Anyone can be an Alpha, Beta, or Omega. That being said, it's pretty uncommon for a Beta or Omega werewolf to have an Alpha human mate. [It's actually more common for Beta-Beta, Alpha-Alpha, etc.] 
> 
> • It's VERY rare for two humans to become mates, and the Mated effects are slightly less than average. Sight is returned, but because they are not bonded with werewolf, they do not achieve the same strength and durability as the more common mate-bonds. 
> 
> • Bitten werewolves finding mates at all are even more uncommon, since their dynamics often shift upon changing.
> 
> • There's a LOT of pro-wolf propaganda, and a lot of misinformation. So, we'll see how it goes.

* * *

Humans have considered themselves the top of the food chain for, well, pretty much as long as they’ve been able to kill other living things with pointy objects. And while that’s a great idea and all, it’s never been particularly accurate. Because while, yes, humans had the ability to create weapons—terrible, massively destructive weapons—humans were too weak to physically become weapons themselves.

Unlike the werewolves.

The werewolves, who held the key to human evolution in their claws, and who were the ones who made it possible for these weak, mortal creatures to even _make_ pointy objects. Because without the werewolves, humanity would be left weak, helpless, and _blind._

Or so they liked you to believe.

 

* * *

 

 

The best thing about being the son of the sheriff were the resources. That, and the fact that Stiles was lucky enough to have the kind of dad that—while he could be kind of strict, yes—actually understood him in a way that a lot of other people couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Just because every human parent had to go through the same thing, raising a blind child in a world of pointless rules and prohibitions, didn’t mean they were understanding or compassionate people. Even with every household modeled to accommodate the blind, they didn’t didn’t seem to understand. And thus, the kids grew up with each choice pre-made for them, every second of their future planned right up until they met their Mate. Because after that, you were under the wolf’s control, and all your big life choices got transferred right over to someone else bigger and ‘better’ than you. Unless you were lucky enough to be an rare Alpha human, then, at least, you were able to hold your ground as an equal. But your typical human wasn’t an Alpha, so the education system and the government made it their duty to prepare every child to be submissive to the 'Greater Race’.

Basically, you were taught to grovel.

Thankfully, he lived a very different life than your typical Unmated child. For one thing, he was one of the few blessed with a guide dog from an early age. A reject from the Police Dog academy for being 'too hyperactive’ and 'untrainable.’

Aka: _Perfect_.

But, okay, maybe naming him Floopy wasn’t such a good idea because people made that infuriating 'cute’ noise in the back of their throats when Stiles introduced him. He was five when they brought him home, the dog had floppy ears that Stiles used to play with for hours. Floopy was a highly logical name, thank you very much.

But that wasn’t all—no, he really did luck out with his dad, especially after his mom died. Because the sheriff understood that Stiles would never, ever settle in and let any of this 'Me Alpha, you pet human’ just _happen_ to him. He fought the Unmated 'helpless’ image, he fought the hypocrisy, and he fought the Werewolf Propaganda every day, with every tool he could get his hands on.

“Stiles… not again.”

“Yes again, and shut up, Scott, no one asked you to tap in.”

“Actually, you did. You invited me over, but thanks for forgetting,” Scott sighed, decidedly not getting in a huff over the slang term. Stiles used it ironically, anyway, not like the bigots who actually go out of their way to find new and interesting phrases to insult them with.

Speaking of tapping… Stiles tilted his head to the side, listening for the tell-a-tale sound of Scott folding his stick up. That always meant an extended stay, since his friend continued to have issues unfolding the thing, and, more often than not, gave up and spent the night at his house. He suspected laziness, and a fondness for Stiles’ weird cooking he did when his dad wasn’t home. Weird, secret cooking that he wasn’t supposed to do, and that his dad probably actually knew about, being, you know, all detective-like and stuff.

“I didn’t forget,” Stiles replied when he was sure Scott had settled into his bed. “I just don’t remember asking your opinion on my Master Plan.”

“Which one is this now? Master Plan 2.0?”

“Nah, that was twenty plans ago.”

“I don’t think that’s something to be proud of,” his friend pointed out, and Stiles took a moment to find an eraser from his desk, and chuck it in the general direction of Scott. The squawk was worth losing the eraser until his dad found it, probably months later.

And anyway, it _was_ something to be proud of, even if Scott never seemed to understand it. Stiles had begun his Master Plan in grade 4, when the usual class segregation began, just like it always did. Year after year, after year, after year.

Because that was the age kids were allowed to follow the pull to their mates, if they felt it. It wasn’t as though they were allowed to hop on in and get married or anything, but no one wanted their child to remain blind for more years than they needed to be. So, it was encouraged, and if your mate wasn’t still just a glint in their daddy’s eye, or dead, or maimed or whatever reason there wasn’t a pull, wa-la! You see the light! Move on up to level two, you are no longer a blind 'loser.’

Which pissed Stiles off. Not because fourth grade had come and gone with not so much as a gentle breeze pushing him towards his mate, but because of what it meant to the Unmated, and especially the omegas. The hypocrisy of it all, the entire system of separating kids because of a physical attribute, every bump, scrape, burn, mistake you made trying to simply _function_ all for a future of what was basically indentured servitude. Where your only real reward was being able to fucking _see_ what you’re doing while you cleaned up your precious werewolf’s house. Or being able to see your alpha while they abused you, or raped you…

So yeah, it pissed him off.

A lot.

Which, in turn, kind of scared everyone except Scott and his dad. Because they had a _'system’_ and it _'worked’_ and Stiles needed ’ _counseling_ ’ for suggesting—loudly—that maybe they shouldn’t separate people like that because here’s a crazy idea: People make friends and you’re separating them based on something stupid, oh, and here’s a another crazy thought: Segregation is _wrong_.

But, no, his idea was completely ludicrous. The Unmated kids had 'special needs’ that the mated kids didn’t, and basically that meant they were unable to do _anything_.

Because—according to them—blind kids are slow, and _stupid_ , and need their hands held until their precious werewolf comes along to show them the light. Mated children can learn in 'leaps and bounds’, and therefore should not suffer the company of their once-classmates and possibly friends who haven’t been 'shown the glory of being mated’ or some other sickening platitude. Mated kids were stronger, and 'safe’ because their magical werewolf mate would 'protect them’, and we _must keep them separate, because they are at different levels. It’s what we did when we were children, it’s what we’ve always done, so we can’t change. Nothing will ever change, so give it up, Stiles._

Thank god for his dad, that’s all he had to say. Every teacher and school councilor from then on out wanted to put Stiles on medication after medication, tried to explain his 'attitude’ by blaming his mother’s _death_ for his outbursts, tried to separate him his peers, and as a last resort, made an attempt to send him to a _super_ special school for bad kids who didn’t fall into their perfect little guidelines.

To save himself some added misery, he stopped talking at school, and started his secret project. Master Plan 1.

Years later, he was now working on Master Plan 23.1, and making a superficial Mate Simulator Pill that would replace alphas and make omegas independent was _hard_ , okay? It took time to work out the bugs.

“What is it this time?” Scott asked, tapping his cane against the bed.

Stiles smiled to himself. Scott was always interested in what he was doing, even if he didn’t understand it half the time. He was the best friend anyone could ask for, and if anyone asked, Stiles hissed at them because Scotty was _his_ best friend, go get your own.

“Okay, so, we both know the newly improved braille thing wasn’t going to work, not unless I got funding—” There was a scoff behind him, “—and we both know how well _that_ went.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you dad raise his voice.”

Stiles snickered, because it wasn’t _his_ first time hearing it, but Poppa-Bear Stilinksi sure was a force to be reckoned with.

(Hint: don’t threaten to hit the sheriff’s son, even if he _is_ an omega trying to blackmail you for money.)

(Second hint: don’t try to blackmail people for money when you’re the sheriff’s son.)

And, of course, with his attention elsewhere, something slipped, and the thin plastic he was working with sliced through his fingers like butter. There was only a second of stunned silence, in which he knew his heart rate would speed up, and the scent of blood would hit the air and 3, 2—

And yep, right on time, there was a loud shout of, “Stiles!?” And what sounded like Scott falling off the bed.

“Calm down, it’s just a—Jesus! Will you please warn a guy?” He yelped, nearly flying out of his chair when Scott practically landed on him.

Scott ignored him, asking “What did you _do?_ ” while he tried in vain to find the wound.

“Dude, you have these mighty werewolf senses, and you can’t sniff out where it is?” He huffed, trying not to laugh at Scott when he was attempting to be helpful. Key word: Trying.

Scott clearly wasn’t as amused, and Stiles had to remind himself that Scott wasn’t the same best friend he had a year ago. Because right now? Scott was breathing in the scent of blood and that seemed to get him more worked up ever since the incident.

“Where _is_ it?!”

Stiles sighed, wondering how it always ended with him calming Scott down, when he’s the one who’s hurt.

“It’s my fingers, Scott, if you’d just calm—if you could—would you stop?!” He hissed, trying to get away from the desperate werewolf. “You’re making it worse!”

“I’m trying to find it!”

“You’re getting blood everywhere!”

“No i’m not, i’m —”

Stiles growled and flailed at him, swacking at his best friend with his non-bleeding hand. “I can feel you spreading it around on my shirt, Scott. So help me god, if this is my favorite shirt i’m going to shove my bloody fingers up your nose so you can smell it for _months_!”

Before Scott could whimper more, the door creaked, and there was a long, suffering sigh.

“Boys…”

Stiles stopped flailing, and Scott stopped trying to crawl into his lap. Cue ultimate guilty-frozen pose, because that worked. Ever.

“Dad.”

“Sherif.”

“Dare I ask _why_ my son is bleeding everywhere, or why it’s all over Scott’s face?” His dad dared to ask.

Stiles couldn’t exactly explain that: hey, so my best friend got bitten by a rouge werewolf a few months ago and now has a super sniffer that kind of usually ends up getting his face covered in one thing or another. So, he settled with:

“Because science, and Scott’s helping… like he usually does.”

“Hey!”

For a second, Stiles was sure his dad had walked away, like a ninja in slippers, or something, but there was another sigh as proof of life.

“I’ll get the first aid kit… And a wet towel for Scott,” was all he said before his foot steps echoed down the hall.

Stiles waited until he heard the usual creak of the bathroom door, and tried to shove Scott to his feet. Which was easier said than done, these days.

“Would you—you’re not going to be able to keep this a secret if you keep literally shoving your nose into stuff,” he reminded him, finally managing to get his friend to his feet. And, God, he felt so exhausted already. It wasn’t even 5 o'clock yet, and Stiles was ready for a nap.

But, well, that was just another part of the whole Unmated thing. Blind, and apparently easily weakened. It was some cruel twist of fate, making every human kid born into this weak, pathetic state until they found their mates. Which was sort of the point of failed Master Plan 16, because he had none of the resources needed to make any kind of enhancement drugs and that would probably be highly illegal, anyway.

So, it didn’t take much to knock Unmated people on their ass, embarrassingly enough. Scott was lucky, in some ways, to have been bitten. His strength was at least four times more than Styles’, in addition to the heightened sense of smell, and hearing, and his asthma was gone now. He was like a blind… God amongst normal, blind humans that… Okay, that analogy failed. Whatever he was, Scott was _better_ after being turned, and Stiles had to try really hard to force himself to think of it was a bad thing. Because it wasn’t, really, but it was kind of taboo and against all the rules and regulations.

“Alright, no more science or 'helping’ today,” His dad announced when he returned. His voice had reached that raspy, slightly higher pitch that he only got when he was stressed or worried about something. Surely his hands weren’t that bad? He must be overreacting, as usual.

Stiles scowled, and waited for the usual tap to his shoulder to warn him that his father was coming close. Again, amazing dad and his amazing ideas like: _how about we make a system to warn you when i’m getting into your personal space?_

Scott let out a surprised grunt, presumedly when his face got introduced with flying, damp towel—His dad wasn’t _always_ nice—and a second later, there was the warning squeeze.

Stiles began to say, “You don’t have to—” before his dad grunted at him, knelt down, and started cleaning up his hand with yet another cloth. The room grew quiet, except for the sound of breathing, crinkling Bandaid wrappers, and the occasional mutter from his dad as he began disinfecting and wrapping up Stiles’ fingers.

“Are you ever going to stop with these inventions of yours?”

“Nope,” Stiles replied, the 'P’ popping loudly in the quiet room.

The sheriff’s movements paused a moment, bandage half wrapped around one of his fingers, and Stiles held his breath.

“… Good.”

And yes, he had the best friggen dad in the whole world.

* * *

 

Lunchtime was a love-hate affair for Stiles. He loved the chance to be around more people that just his dwindling class of 'rejects, but hated the fact that the 'more people’ tended to act like a bunch of superior asshats.

Jackson Whittemore, in particular, was the King Poobah of Asshats. Because Jackson had his perfect werewolf mate, who loved and protected him and made him stronger, and therefor he was a god amongst peasants and lived to torment those who had made it to 16 without finding their mates. Because it was totally _hilarious_ to make fun of disabled people.

He was the reason Stiles didn’t bring Floopy to school anymore. Stiles knew, he just _knew_ it was Jackson who kicked his dog in the leg that time, and without proof, Stiles was left with only one option. Floopy stayed home, and out came the cane.

So, that was the hate aspect of lunch time, but the love was Danny, and Erica, and Scott all getting to hang out together. Danny was one of the few Mated people who didn’t look at his good fortune as an excuse to lord over others, and made himself good company to anyone who wasn’t an entire jackass. It helped that he had more than two brain cells to rub together, and, besides, he and Erica had this thing where Danny described some guy’s ass, and Erica tried to guess who it was. Even if Scott and him couldn’t play, it was still fun to listen to.

“So, I hear there’s some weird stuff going down in town today,” Danny announced, dropping his lunch tray down with a clatter.

Stiles pulled the straw out of his milk carton and started to wiggle it around in his mouth, trying to remember if his dad had mentioned anything.

“Nope, drawing a blank. Tell us, Oh Intelligent one, what news?”

“Well, I guess they found a dead body in the woods last night, and—”

“They found a dead body and my dad didn’t tell me?!” Stiles gasped, his straw flying free and going… Somewhere. Gone forever, that’s where. He needed to start stealing handfuls of them from the lunch ladies. There was no way he was making an ass out of himself by spilling his drink all over everything.

“I doubt he even knew until this morning,” Danny pointed out, and a second later a straw magically appeared in Stiles’ hand. Danny was a god. “It’s all really hush-hush and stuff… Because they think the body was a werewolf.”

Stiles had been about to thank his Holy-ness for the straw when he spat it back out again. “Holy shi—for real? Dude, that’s bad news, why are you bringing bad news to my table?”

From his right, Scott snorted. “Since when is this 'your table?’”

“Since shut your mouth, daddy and mommy are talking.”

“Wait, since when are you 'mommy’?” Erica asked.

“Who said I was 'mommy’?”

Danny groaned, “Can we please never refer to each other as 'mommy and daddy’ again?”

To which Stiles replied, “Whatever you say, dear,” and batted his eyelashes in Danny’s general direction.

“Anyway, the dead body—”

“—which is a perfect topic for _eating_ lunch,” Erica groused, the scrape of her tray telling Stiles she had pushed it away.

“—was found on Hale property, so there’s a huge investigation going on. I heard a rumor that it’s a Hale, too, just not which one.”

“I hope it’s Peter,” Stiles muttered, letting out a muffled squeak when a hand slapped over his mouth. “Mmhgh? Mmhhperrgg!”

It was just Danny, hissing in his ear, “Can you _please_ filter yourself sometimes? You know the town’s werewolf population defers to the Hale pack, even if they’re not a part of it. Why would you even… Out loud… _at lunch_?”

Danny removed his hand just long enough for Stiles to begin with, “but he’s a creepy Mc—” before slapping it back over and leaving it there.

“How about we switch to safer topics?” Erica offered, sounding amused at Danny’s overreaction. Because, seriously? What were they going to do to him for calling it how it was? He was the son of the sherif, and… And okay, maybe that didn’t actually pull any weight with the werewolves after all. He’d leave the McCreeper commentary at home.

“Okay, okay, just—would you get off?” Growled Stiles, pushing away the insistent hand that was now squishing his cheeks. “Filter, i’m _filtering_ —tell me something else I don’t know, fascinate me, Erica.”

“I heard we have a new student, apparently. I haven’t actually seen her, though. Just smelled her.”

“You smelled her? Like, up close and personal, or…?”

“I just said I haven’t seen her,” Erica sighed, throwing something—oh, salty, a French fry then—at his forehead. “But every wolf in the building has noticed the new scent, it’s kind of obligatory.”

Stiles turned to his friend, reaching out and—aiming poorly as usual—shoving some of his fingers into Scott’s ears.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me you smelled a new girl?”

“Uhh, because I haven’t?”

“Lies. Don’t lie to me, Scotty, I sense it in your… Ears,” he said, patting said ear.

“I seriously haven’t smelled anything new, unless you count that nasty stuff Jackson keeps spraying on himself. How can his mate stand it?”

“Clearly they are blessed with Anosmia. And don’t go abandoning me when you roll out the welcome carpet, dude. I require a proper introduction to the new girl with my best bud by my side.”

“Not without you!” Scott chirped, patting Stiles on the back “they’ll never tear us apart.”

“Way to jinx it,” Danny commented, clearly past a wad of food—which sounded disgusting, thanks Danny. Lunch plus heightened hearing didn’t equal much of an appetite on a good day. As it was, today was already feeling a little off, like Stiles was just waiting for the first shoe to drop.

And maybe the others were feeling it, because three of them knocked on wood while Scott whined about how 'realistic’ he was, and the rest of them were just 'pessimists’.

Bad feeling or not, the conversation degraded from there, mostly congregating around what an asshole Jackson was and how the school cafeteria really took Mystery Meat to a whole new level. It wasn’t until lunch was nearly over that Erica suddenly shouted out at someone.

“Hey! New girl!”

“Oh my _god_ —what are you doing?” Hissed Stiles, swatting at her and missing by a mile. He did manage to smack her food tray though, miss judging the distance versus velocity—because, blind—and probably giving himself a good bruise up the side of his palm.

“Expressing my 'School Spirit'—” she hissed back, then switched to her super loud, cheerful voice, “Hi! I’m Erica, what’s your name?”

Beside him, Stiles felt Scott stiffen, probably at the grating sound of Erica’s fake-friendly voice.

Meanwhile, New Girl was attempting to reply, “Hi, um, my name is… My… _Oh_.”

“Your name is 'oh’?” Stiles questioned, grunting when someone’s elbow caught him in the ribs. _“What?”_

“Shut up, Stiles!”

“What, Danny?! I was filtering.”

“ _Oh…_ ” And now Scott was saying it, too. Why wasn’t he getting any elbows?

“Oh my god…” No really, what was wrong with Scott?

“I think I can see.”

Stiles heard—no, literally _felt_ something break inside him, something he’s always know was fragile and needed looking after.

And a tiny, itty-bitty voice in the back of his mind cursed out the entire world for that. But mostly, that tiny, itty-bitty voice in the back of his mind was crying.

Because, you know, the teachers were already taking his best friend away to go bond with his _mate_.

He was just gone. That was it. Stiles didn’t hear anything from him for the rest of the day, because that’s how the system worked. Because 'that’s how it’s _always_ been.’

* * *

 

Two days later, and all Stiles knew was that her name was Allison—Scott’s mom had called his dad, crying about all the legal changes they have to go through now—and that somebody out there _hated_ him. (Someone other than Jackson. Like, someone godly or demonic. Still not Jackson.)

He hadn’t slept, and eating was a no go because it reminded him of lunchtime at school and the last time he had been with his best friend in the whole world. School had gone up to 11 in suckage now that Scott was gone, because now he had to endure his classes alone, eat alone—okay, so Danny and Erica still sat with him but they were no Scott—then go home alone. He hasn’t even worked on his Plan in two days, there just didn’t seem to be a point now. The entire ordeal was exhausting him, and he wasn’t even the one going through the actual mating ceremony bullshit.

“Stiles, please stop pacing and just go call him,” his dad sighed from the couch.

“I don’t want to call him. I want to see him—well, visit him. But, apparently I can’t, dad. It’s against the 'rules’, at least for another week while he and his 'mate’ calibrate their souls or whatever bull—”

“Watch it.”

“—bull–dog nonsense they need to do, and I promised Scott I would be there while his eyes adjusted. It’s not fair.”

“Them’s the breaks, son.”

“I cannot believe you just said that… To _me_ , dad. Firstly: what does that even mean? Secondly, screw the breaks, Scott’s my best buddy and no way is he going through this alone.”

“It’s a—it comes from pool, I think…” His father trailed off, before clearing his throat. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: Scott’s not alone, he’s got his mate, right? A nice werewolf girl who—”

“Wait, she’s not a…”

Aaannnnddd shit.

“What do you mean 'she’s not a…’? Not a what? Nice girl?”

Now he was in trouble, damn his dad and his snoopy detective skills, and maybe damn his own inability to lie to his dad very well in the first place. The man always knew when something was up, it was like he could smell it or something.

Which did beg to question how Stiles kept Scott’s secret, all this time. No one knew about Scott’s 'special encounter’ with a rogue wolf, or how the bite changed the entire mate dynamic. It was something Stiles had tried to look into—haha—but he found no references to blind werewolves finding human mates, or two blind humans becoming mates. It was always blind human + healthy wolf = happy, seeing, super-couple. Or, the not-so-great alternatives where one’s mate was dead long before you could meet, or if you’re painfully stubborn and refuse to meet with any werewolves—which has happened pretty often, actually, and was something Stiles was seriously considering until recently. Since, you know, his friend just met his mate and involuntary left him in the dust.

So, basically, what happened to Scott _Did Not Happen Naturally_ , and that meant Stiles had to be very, very careful about what he said, and Scott needed to be even more careful.

“I’m sure she’s really nice—” Stiles explained, “—obviously she’s nice, Scott can’t be mated with some nasty troll-woman who hates life. Scott would die, and I don’t want him to die, so i’m sure a little rule-bending so I can go over there is totally called for.” He flashed his best, innocent smile. “In case she’s… A troll-woman.”

  
“I’m sorry kid, but it’s gonna have to be a 'no’. And they actually guard the clinic, you know, so don’t get any thoughts about sneaking in.”

Stiles slapped a hand to his chest dramatically. “Dad! I would never—”

The sherif interrupted, “You would _always_. Now go take Floopy for a walk, he’s getting fat again.”

“Says the guy who keeps sneaking him all his turkey bacon under the table.”

There was a dramatic pause where Stiles could almost hear his dad thinking: _How the hell does he know that?_

Then a little more silence while Stiles fidgeted and tried not to tell him that he could hear Floopy slurping it down pretty clearly, and that just because he was blind, didn’t mean he was stupid enough to think his dad _actually_ followed his diet plant to the letter. But that would be rubbing his 'condition’ in his dad’s face, and he knew the sheriff hated being reminded of how much Stiles just… _couldn’t_.

So, he took his dog out for a walk.

Floopy _loved_ walks. Walk walks, not Leading Stiles Through Traffic Without Dying Walks. The dog simply lived for the park, especially now that it was fall and he had leaves to viciously assassinate. It was nice for Stiles too, of course, because Floopy got to be free while he relaxed somewhere under a tree, and there was something to be said about a leash and how it worked both ways.

“S'that your dog?” Someone asked, leaves crunching under their boots as they came closer. Stiles titled his head up out of curtesy, and shrugged.

“Depends on which one you’re looking at.”

“They ugly one with the crooked ear.”

Stiles bristled, “He’s a purebred German Shepherd!”

“Goofy lookin’ purebred,” the asshole-voice mused. He sounded like Jackson’s type, which meant it was going to go from insulting his dog to insulting him pretty quickly. “How’d a freak like you get a dog, anyway? I thought only ’ _special cases_ ’ got em?”

“Well you see,” Stiles began, and he was _not_ rising to the bait. He just wasn’t. “I’m actually a prince, if you couldn’t tell. I was forced to flee my country when the rebels attacked our palace. I ran, with only the clothes on my back, and my beloved, loyal guide dog.”

The guy let out a guttural snorting sound that stiles recognized as one of those disgusted scoffs he’s heard whenever he passed the Upper Classes in his school. Clearly, this _gentleman_ was Mated, cue the superiority complex.

“Why don’t you take your fuck-ugly dog and get outa here?” the man suggested, and he was really leaning into Stiles’ personal space, now.

Which was probably a sign that Stiles shouldn’t say something like, “why don’t you take your fuck-ugly face and get out of here? You’re probably scaring the children.”

Yeah, that was a mistake, because a second later Stiles was being yanked right out of his seat and everything was moving too fast.

“Let me—! Let go!” He shrieked, kicking his legs out in a mad attempt to hit him, somehow, somewhere. All he managed to do was loosen the man’s grip on his shoulders, which only ended with him being dragged along by his hood. The neck of his hoodie was cutting up into his throat, and he scrambled to try to unzip it and free himself.

No such luck, though, because Asshole Mated Man clearly decided that he was going to push the envelop, and one second Stiles’ choking and wheezing for breath was the only sound. The next, there was a low growl that Stiles recognized.

Floopy! Oh thank god, Floopy would protect him.

 _But Floopy was kind of small for his age_ , Stiles remembered. His dad always said he was a runt, and that’s why he was perfect for Stiles. It was a joke at the time, but suddenly it wasn’t funny at all.

“Get the fuck outa my way you mut!”

Stiles tried to tilt his head back enough to call Floopy off. If he attacked—he didn’t even want to think about it.

The growling grew louder, until it was a full-on snarl, and the guy was cursing loudly, and then, nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

A yelp of pain.

Something hot splattered on his face, and suddenly he was free from the strangling hold around his neck.

“F-Floopy!” He gasped out, rolling himself over and rising up to his knees. He felt light headed, like the entire world was trying to throw him off its back.

There was a small, angry, “Fuck this!” And someone was running away.

Stiles beamed. “Good job, Floopy! You scared off the big, bag asshat!” He cheered, crawling forward while feeling out for the dog’s paws or snout. “See? Dad was totally wrong, if us runts stick together, we can do… we can do… Anything…”

He found fur, wet fur. Hot and damp and all Stiles could smell was copper and—and this couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be!

“Floopy? Floopy buddy, you gotta get up man,” Stiles whispered, running his hands over the fur helplessly. He couldn’t find he source—he couldn’t find his nose or—why wasn’t he making any _sound_?!

Stiles choked out a sob, and tried again. He followed the path from the shorter hairs just above Floppy’s front leg, up and up to… To his neck…

“Oh my god, no, no this isn’t happening,” Stiles babbled, pressing his shaking hands over wound. The blood already felt cool, but it happened only seconds ago, if he just added pressure he could—

Somebody screamed behind him, and then there was some more screaming that sounded like kids and holy shit, there were _kids_ at this park and that guy, he just— he just…

“He k-killed my dog.”

“Someone call 911! Is he hurt, are you hurt?”

Stiles turned away from the voices, trying to press into the bloody fur. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was too late. He should have been able to feel a pulse under his fingers, Floopy should be whimpering, the blood should still be warm, not drying on his fingers already.

“He killed my dog,” he said again.

Someone was behind him now, her voice choked with emotion, “Oh honey…”

“He killed Floopy.”

“Sweetie, you should move away now, okay?”

Stiles didn’t move.

“Sweetie, please, we have to cover her up now. The children are really scared. Can we do that?”

“He deserves better than to be covered up like that,” Stiles said, surprised he wasn’t more angry at her. It wasn’t her fault, sure, but he should feel _something_.

“I’m sorry, hon, but we have to—”

Stiles needed to let go—he had to let Floopy go. Floopy wasn’t even _there_ anymore, just a corpse. Just like his mom. She couldn’t smile at him anymore, there wasn’t anything there. He let her go. He could do this. Just let him go, he’s gone.

“He _killed my dog_ ,” he whispered, and let go.

* * *

 

The scuffing sounds are from his left shoe. It’s always loose.

Leaves were crunching.

Muffled music, probably someone’s headphones turned up way too loud.

Someone asked something in a worried voice, but he didn’t care enough to process what they said.

Trash, crackling—only God knows what that squishy thing was.

His face meeting a fence—loud crash. He’s probably cut his hands open.

A dog—a dog barking and it wasn't—it’s not _him_. Not anymore.

Stiles had no idea where he was, and he didn’t particularly care. One moment he was standing in the park, at least ten different mothers and baby sitters crowded around him, talking about testimony and ’ _did anyone see the man’s face?_ ’ and ’ _It’s too bad he’s Unmated, he could have seen it himself._

And all that was just the last straw for him. No, it was past the last straw for him and on to grasping at straws that weren’t even there anymore.

A random stranger came over and fucking _killed his dog, and they’re victim-shaming him._

For being blind.

So he just left. He pushed through them, and took off in a random direction.

After the first twenty minutes of blundering around, Stiles ran face-first into a tree. Which was different from a fence, but felt no less painful. Actually, It probably should have hurt more than it did, but Stiles was getting fond of the numbness creeping through him now that the initial shock was wearing off. His entire body was tingling, like that moment just before the feeling comes back to the leg you were sitting in for six hours. And, while his body was oddly numb, his mind wasn’t.

That emotion thing? He was doing that. A lot.

Sobbing so hard he felt like he was going to throw up, Stiles continued to bump into trees, trip over roots and sticks, and at some point he must have crossed over into the Preserve, because as messed up as he was, Stiles knew there weren’t this many trees in the park.

He kept going until he ran into something just a little too hard, and suddenly he was on his back, sliding down—down to his death, probably. He let out strangled cry as he bounced off a few rocks, until the air was punched out of him by solid ground once again.

“T-thanks,” he wheezed to no one in particular. That glorious numbness he was basking in before? Yeah, that was gone. Gone the way of the rocky, muddy slope he just rolled down. Now he could feel every tree branch, every sharp rock that sliced his skin open, every bruise. Every inch of him that made contact with a god damn force of nature hurt.

Stiles tried to sit up, and managed to lift himself about an inch off the ground when the dull throb around his ribs turned into a shrieking, burning, stallion of pain.

Also, he might be getting delirious, if that analogy was anything to go by.

He would be okay. He wasn’t okay right now, and he probably wouldn’t be for a long time, but he would be okay in the future.

_God, I hope I’ll be okay._

“Do you hear something?”

Stiles stopped breathing—wheezing, actually—and tried to turn his ear towards the voice. It was definitely female, and muffled enough to probably be coming from up top the cliff thing he just slid down. She sounded kind of bitchy-attractive, actually, which was just his luck. Of course he’d be found like this by a beautiful woman.

“I _smell_ something,” another voice answered, and yeah, that was definitely a bitchy-attractive guy, too. Don’t ask how Stiles know they were attractive, he just did. Scott didn’t believe him until Danny proved him right every time.

“I think someone’s down there in the mud… Gross.”

“Laura…”

“Don’t ’ _Laura'_  me,” she snapped back, “You may be an Alpha, but you're not _my_ alpha.”

“Would you just—I’ll do it, go find Boyd and tell him to… Tell him to go buy a first aid kit.”

There was a pause before the attractive-female—apparently named 'Laura’ replied, “you want to pay for a first aid kit for some random person in the middle of the woods?”

“Yes, Laura.”

“He could be a murderer.”

Stiles snorted dryly before he remembered he was supposed to be silent and his nose was full of snot, which was gross, and over all he was starting to feel light headed so maybe if they could hurry it up a bit?

Something landed heavily near his head, making Stiles squeak and try to roll away. Rolling was a bad idea, because whatever he did to himself falling down that mud slip-n-slide hurt like a son of a bitch.

Laura called out, “Is it alive?”

“Breathing, lot of blood, though.”

“Not all of its mine,” Stiles managed to croak, not willing to turn back over to let the stranger see the blood he knew was soaked into his clothes from… From…

“Oh shit, he really is a murderer.”

“ _Laura!_ ”

“I’m going, i’m going. Have fun with your muddy murderer friend. I’ll be back with Boyd.”

Stiles waited for more comments, but apparently the girl really did leave, this time, which meant it was just him and the random dude who climbed down here to help him.

“Hey,” the guy called out softly, “I’m going to turn you over now, alright?”

“M-maybe don’t?” Stiles suggested.

“Come on, I need to see the damage.”

“It’s m-mostly on my b-back, anyway.”

The man signed, “I can see that…”

And smell it, apparently. That had been an odd thing to say, now that Stiles was thinking about it. He 'smelled’ him? That was so weird. Like Scott weird.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Stiles grumbled,“N-Not a kid.”

“Funny name, Not A Kid.”

“Oh my god, he makes Dad Jokes, I’m being rescued by a Dad Joke person,” Stiles groaned, suddenly wanting his dad.

“My name’s Derek, by the way, and you’re not going to be rescued until you let me get a look at you.”

Derek sounded familiar. Maybe if his head was a little clearer he could remember where he’s heard that name before. Wasn’t there a baseball player named Derek? Derek Jeter or something? Did he still play baseball, and what was he doing in a muddy ravine in Beacon Hills? What were any of them doing in a muddy ravine? What was a ravine, anyway? A gorge, right, okay, but what was a gorge, really? George? Why was he in a George, and holy shit his head hurt.

“—okay? Kid? Hey, can you hear me?”

Stiles let out another squeak when hands suddenly closed around his shoulder and pulled him over on to his back again. There was a moment of pure pain, no thoughts, no begging for this Derek person to put him out of his misery, he wasn’t thinking about Floopy, or his dad, or Scott, or his shitty life in general. Just pain and pain and pain.

And then there was light.

And it sucked, so he passed out.


	2. Accidental Acquisitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up.  
> Stiles feels weird.  
> Stiles remembers.  
> Stiles does a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Not beta'd]

 

_Tick_

 

_Tick_

 

_Ti—_

 

 

On those summer days when the air itself was boiling, and no amount of fans or cold watermelon could save them, Stiles would sit in the shade and listen to his mom tell him stories from when she met his dad. 

 

It was stories—plural—because they’d technically met several times before the 'magic' really started. Firstly, their relationship was sort of taboo to begin with. Two humans becoming mates was rare enough that the American government almost considered it a ‘disorder’, before people said maybe let’s not do that because we like to at least pretend that everyone has some sort of ‘choice’ in the matter of who you’ll be with. But that part wasn’t really important to his mom.

 

What was important was how they became mates.

 

Apparently, his mother had been working the phones for the admissions office of their college when his dad called to yell at her about some extra charge on his bill that his older sister had found, without realizing that the number his sister had also found was _not_ the billing office. 

 

Suffice to say, as first meetings go, that wasn't one of the best. She hung up on him before he was even done, and apparently nearly broke the phone in the process. But, it was also when his parents both started to notice that the system that was so carefully set in place for the Unmated was a serious piece of crap. The additional charge on his bill? It was for a 'studies kit' that no one seemed to know anything about when either of them asked around. She started calling it an IOUO, Item Of Unknown Origin, and it had become a bit of a joke around the office with the other Unmated girls. Mostly because they couldn't see why the charge was actually a really, really bad thing at the time.

 

Meanwhile, his dad still couldn’t get the charge removed, and was facing a not-so-great future of maybe not being able to go to college at all. His family had never been very rich, and the Unmated Scholarship program was covering nearly half of the cost already. If he didn’t get it, he’d be forced to join the alternative program that was a lot like the Natural Mate Behavioral classes mixed with the Army. (As his dad described it.)

 

His mom, though, was on a roll. Her research into the extra charge was what lead to their second meeting that was, again, over the phone. This one started off with his dad apologized profusely, and his mom telling him that the item on his bill shouldn't even _be_ there, and wasn’t it strange how it was only included in the typed up section, not the _brail_ section. Which would be the only second his father could read, meaning he would never even know that there _was_ an additional charge, never mind what it was for. 

 

And so, they met for the third time, in person, on a warm day in June, at the admissions office of their college. It was the day everything changed for them, his mother always said, a day where a lot of things came to light. 

 

She promised him, every time she told the story, that one day he would see it too. 

 

She was probably talking about the literal light you see when mates meet, not the broken system he and every other Unmated were trapped in. Stiles chose the latter as his lesson, and spent the rest of his life fighting against the entire idea of the former. 

 

 

_Tick._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles stretched and stretched until something slid into place in his back with a loud, satisfying crack. His face felt weirdly warm right now, but he was enjoying his moment of comfort; speckled with vague flashes of a dream about running, and someone running beside him in the never ending dark. It had felt right to him, which was kind of weird because Stiles couldn't run without smashing into things and this mystery person was just _there_ and... And this headache was going to kill him dead. 

 

"Nnghh... Stoooooop." 

 

The headache did not, in fact, stop. Clearly his words weren't going to work, so he rolled back over to press his face into the pillow again. Mmh... Nice and cool and—

 

Something was different. 

 

Something was... There. Or not there? From one second to the next, the heat changed, and _something was no longer there_. 

 

No, that didn't even make sense to him, he'd have to test it out. For science. 

 

Rolling on to his back again—ow, _sore_ —Stiles moved carefully around until the thing was back again. The mystery something that felt like it was... Like it was encompassing him. He could feel the heat coming from whatever it was, a nice, dull warmth like those times Stiles would stretch out on the living room floor. His dad always called him a cat when he did that, but it was the only place in the house where he could find that huge warm spot.

 

Stiles scowled and abruptly sat up to go find his dad, and try to explain this feeling. Swinging his feet off the side of his weirdly lumpy—shorter?—bed, Stiles yawned, stretched until things started to protest again, and opened his eyes like he was taught to do for the sake of ‘everyone’s comfort in society. 

 

Pain. Explosion. Burst. Fireworks—how fireworks feel in your chest, pain. Things Stiles didn’t know the words for but, _ow make it stop!_

 

Tearing up, he squeezed his eyes closed and covered them with his hands for a good measure. 

 

"Yeah, it's a bitch to get used to," someone drawled from near by, sounding way too amused about Stiles' suffering. 

 

Stiles wheezed, and started getting the feeling that something huge had happened and he might have missed it. "Well... You're not my dad." 

 

"Astute observation, Piggy." 

 

"Only people who've known me for at least five years can give me nick names." 

 

“Tough. After seeing you rolling around in the mud like that?" The woman laughed. "You've earned this one." 

 

Mud? 

 

Running. Falling—too fast—can't stop—pain and mud and voices and _light_. 

 

 

Stiles groaned. "Oh god, that was _real_?" 

 

"Yep. I'm guessing you're memory's a little _muddy_ right now, am I right?" She asked, sounding closer. 

 

"Foggy, muddy, whatever you want to call it for the sake of lame puns while a perfectly nice person is _suffering_ before you," Stiles replied, making an attempt to remove his hands from his eyes. The second he did, however, something else covered them. 

 

"I'd hold off on that for now," she warned, wrapping—tying something around his head. 

 

"Why does it sound like you know exactly what's going on?" 

 

"Because I do."

 

"Annnd you're not going to tell me because...?" 

 

There was a chuffing sound, and Stiles felt the stranger shift away from him. “Because I think your mate should explain it to you, like I explained it to mine?” 

 

Wait, what?  _Mate_?

 

What? 

 

Stiles tried to actually say the words, but his voice failed him when an unholy explosion of a roar came out of nowhere, and scared him out of his fucking _skin_. It didn't just stop, either, it went on and on until Stiles was on the floor, cowering and tilting his head to the side to expose his neck. It wasn't until the sound tapered off that he realized what he was doing, and—disgusted with himself— quickly adjusted his head to hide his neck again. It wasn't even his alpha’s call, he shouldn’t have cowered like that. 

 

"So," the woman sighed, "that was Peter." 

 

“Peter,” Stiles repeated. Sure. “Peter the scary alpha you keep in the basement?” 

 

"Oh, he's not the alpha, he's just not very happy… being in the basement.”

 

"Gee, I didn't get that at _all_ from the bone-shattering roar I heard just now."

 

There was a snort of laughter, and a hand smacked against his back just a tiny bit on the painful side. "I like you. At least you're not half as boring as Erica's mate." 

 

Which, okaaay, apparently this person knew Erica and her mate. The guy’s name was Boyd, and he never sat at their lunch table because apparently he didn’t go to high school anymore or something. Erica was super vague when he and Danny ask her about him, while being _way_ too detailed about their sex life. It was a small world, very small. It was almost like she was talking about Peter, from Erica’s pack that—

 

“That was Peter _Hale_?" He squeaked, fingers curling his full nails into the wood floor beneath him.  

 

"Bingo!" She chirped. "And the boy gets a prize!" 

 

"Is my prize a one way ticket out of here?" Stiles replied in a joking voice, only maybe three-thirds joking. Because Stiles didn't want to die. Because Stiles has heard the stories of Peter Hale, and the sick, creepy things he’s been said to have done.   
  
Like how everyone _knew_ he’d murdered someone, some girl back when he was in high school. And everyone knew that if Peter Hale showed up on your doorstep, the Hale family had put a hit on you and it was time to pay up, with you life. Or the one story everyone told where Peter Hale could change into a full-bodied wolf, and he liked to hunt humans at night. Or how everyone said he ate cats and chicken livers around the full moon so he’d be stronger. Or the whispers about how Peter wasn’t actually an alpha, but his _human_ mate was when she was alive, so he had to submit to her. Everyone also knew how he liked to lurk around in the preserve, chasing joggers until apparently one old guy actually died from a heart attack. (That one wasn’t true, Stiles read the file. The old guy sued for emotional damage, and moved to Florida.) 

 

So, yeah, everyone knew about Peter Hale, but not very many people actually went anywhere near the guy. Not after the fire. 

 

“Nope,” Laura said, and she was fucking smiling, Stiles could tell. “It’s time for you to meet your _mate_!” 

 

Oh yeah, if things weren’t bad enough, Stiles had a mate. Wait, that meant he should be able to see, right? Actually, someone should have shipped him off to the clinic right away so he could go through the first soul-binding steps and therapy. 

 

“This isn’t the clinic, though,” he muttered as the woman yanked him up from the floor by an arm, and started marching him across the room. 

 

“Nope.”

 

“Shouldn’t I be there?”

 

“Nah, it’s not necessary.” Stiles was suddenly tugged to the left. “That’s a whole load of bullshit, actually. You don’t need a bunch of weird ceremonies to bond with your mate, it’s a natural experience that happens over time.” 

 

“But the soul-calibration and—“

 

“Oh my god, they still call it that?” she laughed, making Stiles lose his balance and fall into her. “Easy there, I’m already taken, Piggy.”

 

Holy shit, Stiles hated this woman. 

 

“Laura, will you—He’s awake?” Someone with a deep voice asked, making Stiles jump a good foot in the air. What the hell was happening? Who were these people? 

 

“Mostly awake,” she replied, pushing Stiles hard enough to bump into what felt like the biggest, meatiest shoulder in the world. “If he wasn’t Peter’s pissy-fit would have woken him up, anyway.”

 

“Why are you bringin’ him over there now, then?” the guy asked.

“Because he’s itching to run, and Derek needs to stop being a pussy and face him.” 

 

Stiles turned, trying to stop and actually have this conversation before he was frog-marched to this Derek person. “What do you mean—“

 

“I’ll call the school ‘bout him, then,” the man replied, his voice growing fainter as he moved away. 

 

“What? Don’t call my school!” Stiles yelped, only to get shoved forward once again. “Okay, someone needs to explain what’s going on right the hell now. I know you don’t know who I am, but my dad’s the—“

 

“Sheriff, we know.” Chuckling, the woman slowed to a stop, and leaned in close to his ear. “There’s steps in front of you. Three of them.” 

 

“That’s great, so you know how much trouble you’re going to be in if—“

 

“No trouble at all, now step—good. Step two… not bad.” Stiles took his chance to swat whatever part of her he could reach. She just laughed, and shoved him down the last step and onto… grass? It felt like grass under his feet. 

 

“Can’t you at least tell me what’s going on?” he whined, hoping to parse a little information about where he was. He hated going into new places, well, blind. If and when he could, Stiles would gather as much information about a building or space as he could before entering it. It was another one of those things that had his teachers suggesting medications, the heavier kinds. But, whatever, so he liked to know if he had a higher chance of breaking a knee on one of the twenty dining tables in the bistro, was it really that weird? 

 

Just as they started walking again, his watch sounded off twice with the PM alarm tone that meant school was already well under way, and holy shit he didn’t go home last night! 

 

Stiles blurted out, “I need to call my dad!” and got another not-so-gentle shove from the rude lady. 

 

“You can call him after you talk to Derek.”

 

“No, you don’t get it, I just—I must have just gone _missing_ after… after…”

 

Mud. Pain. Blood. _Fuck-ugly dog_ , he said. 

And then he—

 

Stiles let out a wail, and just dropped. How could he forget? _How_? How is it possible that he—the blood under his hands, the _sound_ he made when he—Stiles gagged, and slumped forward on his hands and knees. A hand touched his back, but he couldn’t stand it, it hurt too much. His whole body hurt, everything was broken now. Floopy didn’t deserve to die like that, not after fourteen years of working hard. He should have been a star-assistance dog, he should have enjoyed his retirement in peace instead of taking care of a stupid sixteen-year-old. This would have never happened if he’d been assigned to someone better than Stiles, someone less stupid, and ugly, and _horrible_ as Stiles. 

 

“—Can’t get him to stop!” 

 

God, his dad was going to be so disappointed in him, Sties should have never—he should be dead instead. He can’t breathe, shit. 

 

“—Move him to—“ 

 

Stiles tried to draw in another breath to wail again, but it just wasn’t coming. He felt the grass pressed against his face, his spit and snot and tears soaking the earth under him. 

 

“—Can’t—“

 

One second it was nothing but pain and cold grass, the next the world was tilting, and everything was warm and safe and… sturdy?

 

“I got him.”

 

_Okay_ , Stiles thought, pressing his face into the warmth and trying to catch his breath. 

 

“I’ve got you,” the voice whispered. 

 

And all he could think was, _Okay_. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

He wasn’t okay, but he was better by the time his watch chimed for three o’clock, and not hyperventilating was happening. Stiles couldn’t even comprehend how he was even at ‘better’ at this point, especially since he spent the last hour wrapped up in someone’s arms just… breathing. That was it, breathing and a few whispered instructions as a hand slowly ran over his head. Whoever he was wrapped up in, they seemed perfectly comfortable being snotted all over by a perfect stranger, so that was nice. 

 

But now, Stiles was starting to grow curious as the panic was fading away. 

 

“Who—“ Stiles’ throat reminded him that was was sort of screaming an hour ago. “Who are you?” 

 

The man grunted, as if Stiles had just interrupted some deep thoughts or something, and the hand on Stiles’ head vanished. “Derek.”

 

“You’re the Derek I was supposed to talk to?” he asked, pulling away from the nice furnace of a chest, and reaching up to pull away the blindfold. 

 

A hand stopped him. “Don’t, your eyes won’t be able to handle it after crying so much.”

 

“But it’s damp and itchy.”

 

“You’ll see the light against your eyelids,” the man explained, giving his hand a gentle tug to remove it. “It’ll just disorient you more.”

 

Stiles shifted a little, but not enough to remove himself from super-comfort-lap. Not just yet. “How do you know that?”

 

“My family’s all been bonded.” 

 

“So, what, they gave you detailed instructions on how to take care of your pathetic, weak human?” 

 

The hand that had been gentle a moment before, moved away from him as if burned. Shit, Stiles should know better than to go full Social Justice Warrior on their first date.   
  
Holy shit, this was his _mate_.  
  
Holy shit, how did he just _know_ that?

 

“Yeah,” Derek grumbled, “They did tell me how to take care of my _human_ mate. That’s what you’re supposed to do, make sure your family members are prepared to take care of their loved ones.”

 

“But you don’t love me,” Stiles blurted out, feeling his cheeks burn before he even finished talking. Jesus, he was on a roll today. Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn’t he get the fairy-tale meeting like all the stories say it’s going to be? Or why not meet in the lunch room? Stiles was totally cool with that, anything but crying-panicking-snot-mess all over your mate’s front lawn. As far as bad first impressions go, Stiles was going to have to steal the title from his mom.

 

“I… will,” Derek said, but he sounded unsure. Really unsure. 

 

“I doubt that,” Stiles scoffed, trying to hide the hurt under humor and self-hatred. He had enough of both, it should work just fine. “I mean, you haven’t even seen the worse side of me yet. You think the panic attack and sobbing mess is bad? Wait until you hear me really get talking, or when I get hyper-focused on one thing and forget to do the dishes for a few days because i’ve found all these articles on ancient pranks, which are actually pretty cool. Did you know, there was this woman who—“

 

“I don’t—maybe stay on topic, for now?” Derek suggested. 

 

“Yeah, no, that’s exactly it.” Stiles shook his head sadly. “I _can’t_ stay on topic, I never could. Plus, I hate our system. Not like, ‘ _Down with the system I want to listen to emo music and pretend it’s edgy to sulk_ ,’ but more like I’ve been actively trying to sabotage the system to abolish segregation for the Unmated,open up the school systems, create more job opportunities for the Unmated and Omegas—“

 

“You’re an omega, right?”

 

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Dude, seriously? That’s what you got from all that?”

 

“No.”

 

Wow, his mate, a man of few rude words. Stiles could already feel the warm, comfy buzz fading away. In fact, he really liked the idea of getting off this guy’s lap now. 

 

“Wha—hey, stop wiggling around,” Derek hissed as soon as Stiles started squirming to get away. Both hands wrapped around his upper arms, and tugged him closer. “Stop.” 

 

“You stop,” Stiles sneered, trying, again, to wriggle to his freedom. Which was… a bad idea. Because warm and fuzzy feeling was gone, and Derek was trying—for some god damn reason—to hold on to him and somehow Stiles got on leg up under the guy’s arm. In a panic Stiles kicked off the back of the couch. 

 

The move sent him flailing backwards while his knee knocked Derek’s grip loose and his other leg did nothing to stop them both from tipping right off the couch and on to the floor. After the proverbial dust settled, Stiles just lay there, trying to think of a way that this could be any worse.   
  
Of course, that’s when he realized that he was wearing a long sleeve shirt, rather than his t-shirt, and that meant someone _undressed_ him.

 

“W-what am I wearing?” he asked, his cheeks flushing at the thought of someone seeing him _nakedohmygodno_. “Where are my clothes—where’s my _phone_?”

 

Derek began, “Can you calm down for just one—“

 

Stiles waved his elbow in the general area of Derek’s face—he hoped—and pushed himself away. “I want to call my dad. Right. Now.” 

 

“Look, it’s right there on the table, but—“

 

“No buts,” Stiles snapped, pushing himself off the floor. “First, you kidnap me…”

 

Derek sputtered, “I didn’t _kidnap_ you, we initiated the bond, I had to take you with me.”

 

Stiles smacked his hand around on the table, looking for the phone. “That’s not an excuse.”

 

His phone was shoved into his hands, but Derek was attempting the whole ‘let me hold you still’ thing again and Stiles was about ten seconds away from screaming bloody murder, and maybe committing some too. 

 

“You can’t just—you can’t _leave_ when we’re in the bonding—“

 

“I DON’T WANT TO BOND WITH YOU!” Stiles shouted, and finally, he was free to scuttle away from the guy. 

 

 

He didn’t notice, at first. He was too busy scrambling for his phone, jabbing his thumb into the speed dial button for his dad and quickly putting it to his ear. He didn’t notice even as it began to ring, and all he could think was ‘ _come on, come oooon_ ,’ to his dad to pick up and come save him from… from silence. 

 

Twisting the phone away from his ear a little, Stiles listened for Derek. Someone was definitely still breathing near by, but nothing else. Not a peep. 

 

“Uh… are you here… um?” he asked, one ear still trained on his phone. There was a sound, a small, strained sound that he almost missed over the sudden shuffling of clothing, the thud of feet moving in a hurry, and a door slamming. 

 

It sounded a little familiar. 

 

His dad answered the phone in an explosion of concern and anger and all those good things. Stiles answered his questions as best he could, named the Hale house as his location, and agreed to stay where he was while his dad came to get him. It was a long time after he hung up that he realized that he might have done a bad thing a few minutes ago. It took an even longer time for him to realize that even after he he was rescued, and safely back at home, this wasn’t going to go away. 

 

It took him the entire ordeal of his dad picking him up, the situation being explained by Laura, and the drive home to realize that Derek had made almost the same sound his dog did when it was stabbed. 

 


End file.
